The Lure of Fishing

It seems I have taken my trout fishing to a new level. I now have my very own padawan!

For those of you unaware of my neuroses, not only am I an avid fly fisherman, but I am also a nerd of the highest level! Hence the above Star Wars reference. (Thank you George Lucas, and Disney too, now, I suppose.)

My digression aside, I am eagerly training my brother-in-law (or Bil, for short) in the art of trout fishing with a fly rod. He told me he has a fly rod, but has not yet used it. He asked me to take him fishing.

Not my secret spot, but a lovely, fishy-looking
spot, I think.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but if you add those two statements together, he practically begged me to take him under my wing and mold him into a jedi master! Whoops! I meant to say fly fisherman extraordinaire.

My first assignment for my young padawan was to watch some very informative Orvis videos on fly fishing for the beginner. The second assignment was to meditate with his gear and a handful of river rocks scattered around his still form.

If any of them levitate, I told him, he should tell me immediately. I still haven't managed that, yet, and I want (need) to know how it's done.

Regardless, I have taken him with me for a few trips. I have regaled my immense knowledge on the subject of fish, fishing, lakes, streams, rivers, lures, lure presentation, weather conditions, the finicky nature of trout and life in general.

He seems to concentrate best with his eyes closed. By the time we reach our destinations, he likes to tease me by acting as though he just woke up. I'm enjoying his sense of humor!

Sadly, the poor, young lad has yet to land his first trout.

Worry not, my dear readers! As soon as the weather starts to warm, I will be taking him to my secret trout spot I discovered last year.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I'm off to meditate. During my last session, I think I saw one rock tremble.

Missing Pet -- Goes by Fang

Fang has died. I strongly suspect he met his demise. It is possible he lives on, but I doubt it and I certainly hope not.

For those unaware, Fang is a spider. He just showed up outside my bathroom window one day. He was orange and black, mostly, with a largish body, multiple eyes and glistening fangs, hence the name.

Thank you Party City for the reasonable
facsimile of the large spider outside my
bathroom window!

I've recently adopted a 'live and let live' policy and have tried to stop killing pesky bugs. Spiders included. Needless to say, it took considerable restraint to not open the window and spray heavy duty bathroom cleaner on this morning intruder.

When he first appeared, I tried to name him Charlotte. I tried some other cutesy names, but it's a spider! None of them stuck. Then I tried Fang. Obviously it was male because the name Fang just worked.

I talked to him every morning. I warned him that he was getting too big for his britches. I told him there was a good chance a bird was going to come along and eat him. I told him he was much to brazen just hanging in the middle of his web like that in plain view.

We carried on this one sided relationship for the better part of a month. One day... Poof! He was gone.

I kept an eye out for Fang for nearly a week afterward. Nothing. I still glance out the window in the mornings, but I don't really expect to see Fang anymore

Please don't delude yourself into thinking I became attached to a spider. Good riddance, and the next spider might not be so lucky...

Sniff, sniff.

Historical Landmark for Sale!

Fuzzy, Black Dogs will be closing its office doors for the final time very soon.

The good news, however, we have moved into a new facility and will continue to bring high quality humor associated with Fuzzy, Black Dogs. The phenomenal byproduct of this move is that now someone will have a chance to own a piece of history!

I believe it's common knowledge that the staff and crew of Fuzzy, Black Dogs was living and operating out of a residence. We still are, but our previously owned domicile will be on the market very soon.

My wife, the realtor and the home inspector have managed to create the longest list known to mankind for me. It contains all the things that I can do in order to create a happier environment and more appealing residence. This, of course, is supposed to bump up the value of said residence.

The house should remain unchanged for obvious reasons.

Do you think someone said 'Let's make Connemara look a little more appealing and get rid of some of these books' or 'Let's spruce up this pitiful Key West house. Hemingway was so messy!'

Of course not! An historical home is supposed to be left in the shape it was in when the famous writer lived and worked there. This, as everyone knows, is common knowledge.

Instead of working on my 'Honey Do' list, I'm working on a sign. It will be clearly visible from the road. I'm hoping to have it in place before the house is listed.  Below is a sneak peek at my work in progress...

Historical Original

site of

Fuzzy, Black Dogs

Fashion Sense Made Easy

My wife coordinates her clothes. This means that she does not know what she'll wear on any given day. I don't know about you, but I would find that stressful. Not to mention it would add time to my morning routine. That cannot happen.

I've observed her behavior now for quite some time. She starts with her pants. If her class is going on a field trip, it's jeans. If not, it's pants. However, it gets more detailed than that.

If the field trip is to be outside (hot), then she'll go with the cropped pants that don't go all the way to her ankles. Then, the type of jean, meaning the material, comes into play. All the jeans look the same to me.

Same with the pants. Many of them are black. Just black. Most go from her waist to her ankles which, as one would expect, most pants do. At least, all my jeans and pants do. Despite the fact that women's pants are all made of different materials -- cotton, plastic, wool, titanium, polyester, steel, spandex, iron and the like -- black pants are black pants!

Then there is the whole matching thing. The shirt has to match, or complement, the pants color-wise, style-wise, material-wise and seasonal-wise. And the shoes? Whoa! What do you mean they have to match the outfit? Pure craziness!

I'd have to get up at 4:30 a.m. if I wanted to make it to school before my students!

I prefer the easy route. I have jeans and I have khakis. Every shirt I own matches my pants, no matter which pair I'm wearing. I line my shirts up in the closet in the order that I plan to wear them. And my shoes? I have one pair of work shoes and they match every one of my shirts and pants.

If GQ, Vogue, L'Official Hommes, Elle or any other fashion magazines would like to interview me on my fashion sense, please feel free to shoot me a message at the offices of Fuzzy, Black Dogs.

Fuzzy, Black Dogs... Plus One

An interloper has infiltrated the ranks of Fuzzy, Black Dogs.

This interloper sports a full, blonde coat. She, as she is a girl, is a bit younger than Bob. She also has energy to spare. She has a very shrill, loud bark, and she's not afraid to use it. She goes by the name of Roxy (which I sometimes spell Roxie, but my inconsistencies aren't what's important here!)

The dynamic, running duo.

Roxy, as it turns out, is a teacup size Pomeranian. Except she's not. Roxy was not supposed to exceed ten pounds, but someone forgot to tell her that. She may be as much as 26 pounds, give or take, which puts her about the same weight as Bob.

Though she is not black and does not have a white spot on her chest, the actual fuzzy, black dog constituency in my household seems to have accepted her. Roxie's eccentricities have allowed her to assimilate into our merry band of misfits.

My main worry is that the fuzzy, black dogs may harbor some resentments toward the newcomer. Roxy likes to run. I like to run. I often refer to her as my blonde running partner. This, of course, causes confusion until I explain that my running partner is, in fact, a quadruped.

Technically, Roxy belongs to my father-in-law, who I normally refer to as Pop pop. My wife and I recently moved in with Pop pop. Somehow, all doggy care seems to have fallen squarely into my lap.

I haven't yet shared the news with Pop pop that I am in search of some doggy dye. After all, if Roxy is to be fully incorporated into Fuzzy, Black Dogs, she will simply have to go Goth!

Educating Second-Graders

My second year as a full fledged teacher has placed me squarely in second grade. While I love my second-graders, they're just not the worldly wise third-graders with whom I got used to teaching.

The kids in my third grade class were bastions of worldly knowledge. They knew how to break a pencil without the teacher knowing/seeing/hearing, how to disassemble a mechanical pencil, and they knew that not all pens click. Some have caps!

My sweet little second-graders, however, are not quite as savvy as my third-graders were.


"You broke your pen, Mr. Haworth," one of my girls said to me last Wednesday.
"No," I responded. "It's just a cap. See?"

I took the cap off and snapped it back on to show her. She gave it a skeptical look and I opened and snapped it shut a second time.

"It's weird," she said.
"No. It's a Waterman," I joked.
"It's a whaa?"
"A Waterman," I said and held it closer for her to see.
"What's a Waterman?"
"A fancy pen. An expensive pen."
"Does it cost a lot?
"This one was about a hundred bucks."
"Say whaaa?!"

My second-grader looked me in the eye and scrunched one eye at me. It was a bewildered, serious look with just a hint of incredulity to it. Her look said 'man, somebody ripped you off if you actually paid money for a pen!'

"Ummm... Okay, Mr. Haworth."
She just turned and walked away from me.

Car Technology Jeeping Up on Me

Five vacation days and approximately five hundred miles later, I can tell you that, while technology might be fun and amazing, it's not always for the best.

We - my wife, her dad and I - rented a Jeep Grand Cherokee 4X4 for our recent beach tryst. The vacation went smoothly until five minutes down the road. I hadn't even left my home town when I thought I heard my mother's voice.

"The speed limit is 35 miles per hour," the car said.

The two other occupants in the vehicle found this wildly amusing. I silently cursed Jeep and plotted Gretta's demise. Gretta was the name I assigned the disembodied voice that Jeep put into the car to torture me for the next 200-some miles to the coast.

Somewhere around the 120 mile mark, we ran into a cloud burst. Just as I started to reach for the wipers, they began working. I nearly ran off the road. Stephen King's classic, Christine, ran through my mind.

Turns out the tailgate lifted itself. The high beams come on and off on their own. The vehicle told me how much fuel consumption I was using when I switched to manually change gears, which was considerably lower than when in automatic. Must be a Jeep glitch and not my driving. I'll mention that in my complaint letter to the company.

While I'm not 80, and I don't need a car to parallel park for me (I'm perfectly capable, thank you very much!), I will admit that I did particularly enjoy the seat warmer and cooler-offer. 

Curse Jeep for utilizing technology to try to make me drive safely and keep me safe, as well as create a comfortably enjoyable ride! I'm most upset for the technology Jeep didn't employ... Ejector passenger seats. By utilizing THAT technology, I could have slipped it into four wheel drive and really given that SUV a proper test drive!

My four wheeling suggestion made my passengers antsy, so to speak. New technology, Jeep, and I won't be drafting that official letter of complaint.